


White Feather

by MonoclePony



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Cityboy!Jean, Farmer!Marco, M/M, Mutual Pining, farming au, in-period attitudes, world war one au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 05:16:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13093176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonoclePony/pseuds/MonoclePony
Summary: It's the winter of 1915, and war has been raging across the world for a whole year. Jean Kirschtein, a conscientious objector, is sent from London by his concerned parents to avoid the scandal brewing in his wake. He arrives in Dartmoor, a place far removed from anywhere else he's known, in the hopes of working the land to help with the war effort. However, upon arrival at the farmhouse he meets a familiar face - another boy, who he met back home in awkward circumstances, also not fighting.As Jean tries to keep his own feelings in check, he begins to wonder if the other boy is feeling quite so conflicted...This is my submission for the JMGE 2017 for Daringstars.





	White Feather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daringstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daringstars/gifts).



> Whew! So it's done, and what a monster I've created ;___; can you tell I love writing unnecessary period pieces with a lotta angst and pining?   
> My prompt for this year's JMGE was '"Modern" AU Farmer Marco and City boy Jean' and uh well...you said any time period so long as it was 'this world' so uh I hope you like World War One Dartmoor? ;;;; 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you like it and have a very Merry Christmas and a wonderful 2018! (it'll probs be 2019 by the time you finish reading this lmfao orz)

There were a lot of things about the world that made no sense to Jean Kirschtein nowadays. Though he hated to admit it, there were times when he wanted to stop, look over his shoulder, and ask for help. He was past the point of being able to go wailing to his mother, he knew that, but it didn’t stop that aching uncertainty in his chest. Still, he had grown very good at bottling it up, and bottling was exactly what he was doing inside the small train compartment he found himself in.

The train was going to be late; there had been a delay on the line, their conductor had informed them with an apologetic smile and the wringing of his papery hands. All Jean had done was stick his head out, mutter to himself and go right back to being propped against the window, trying his very best to pretend things weren’t playing out the way they were. At least if he was on the train a little longer, it could delay the inevitable.

The horrid thing about this whole scheme of his parents’ was that it made perfect sense – it was just something Jean didn’t want to do. That made the ‘not making sense’ feeling grow larger in his gut, and he had to stuff it down with a grab at the newspaper wedged between his leg and the small suitcase he’d brought with him. He’d refused to put it in the luggage compartment. He was happier knowing it was there with him, where he could keep an eye on it.

He tried to read, but the headline made him feel a little queasy. He instead pressed his head against the window and watched the outside world shudder past like a grainy newsreel, the glass frosting over with every soft breath he made. The landscape had been getting emptier the further out they had gone from London; there weren’t even houses in the gaps between stops now, just endless fields of rolling green and the occasional sheep or cow. He sighed. This was going to be like landing on the moon.

He already missed London. It was a beautiful city, the kind that felt as though it would continue to stand for millennia and never change. Its cobbled streets and hansom cabs and buildings that stretched up to tickle the chin of God were the sights he knew and loved. He’d grown up under those buildings, walked those streets, rode those cabs. London was his home, his blood, and he was somewhat proud of the fact. And now he felt rather like a weed being pulled.

Of course, he thought bitterly, his parents had their reasons. This wonderful plan of theirs.

“You’ll like it out in the country,” his father had said, all paper-pretend smiles and over the top enthusiasm. “You could get in lots of walks. Lots of open sky. Plenty of time to reflect.”

His mother had been the more realistic kind. “It’s a perfect place to stay out of trouble,” she’d said. “You can keep a low profile out there, no one need know you’re…”

Jean hadn’t wanted her to finish that sentence. He was glad that she hadn’t seemed to be able to.

He had made himself comfortable in a compartment that was all his own until Gloucestershire, when a portly businessman made his presence known and sat down in the seat opposite without a word. Jean hadn’t looked up from the newspaper he’d forced in front of his face the moment he’d seen the compartment door open, though it irked him not to be alone. He coped better with impending doom when he was alone. Unfortunately, the man was in the business of talking.

“Bloody cold weather out there,” he said in greeting. His voice sounded like he looked; plump and filled to the brim with woodsmoke.

Jean cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing. His newspaper wasn’t the most riveting of reads – after the sickness-inducing headline and the second page story, all seemed comparatively dull – but it was better than making small talk with some country bumpkin.

“Hope the boys out in France are doing alright,” the man tried again. He gestured at the headline.

Jean folded the top of his newspaper down to show just how high his brow was raised. “I suspect they’re exceedingly cold and struck with cholera as we speak.” He flicked the paper up again. When he got no response, he felt a flicker of guilt and folded his paper down again. He adopted what he hoped was a wretched expression. “Apologies. Sore subject.”

The man nodded sagely. “Got someone out there?”

Jean smiled thinly. “Not exactly.”

It was then that the man very obviously began to look him up and down, this young man sat in the train on the way out of all discernible cities. “What you doing in this part of the country anyhow? Thought a strapping young lad like you would be-” His smile faded when his eyes caught what was tucked in Jean’s jacket pocket, as though it had never been there in the first place. “Oh.”

Jean glanced down too, and saw what he’d been looking at. A white, albeit crumpled, feather. He sucked in his breath and shoved the thing down deeper, feeling the shame already burning his cheeks. “ _Damned_ thing, that girl at the station must’ve got it in my jacket when I-”

“No. Quite alright.” The man’s tone was shorter now. Clipped.

Jean knew that things were definitely not ‘quite alright’ but he simply sighed and returned to his paper. He hoped the man wasn’t looking at the way his hands were shaking. For a moment, he’d thought that the man hadn’t spotted the feather. For a moment, he’d thought that the man somehow knew who he was – _what_ he was – and why he’d gotten so riled at the paper’s second story. Maybe something about him had made everything so glaringly obvious. Jean burrowed deeper into his paper, his frown hiding the way his heart beat furiously against his ribs. He never thought he’d feel relief at being considered a coward.

Because that was the other reason for this little excursion, out of the town. Jean was laying low, the way his father wanted him to, after the scandal had broken out in the heart of their great country. The scandal that, contrary to the time, held a distinct lack of women inside it. “Your _sort_ ,” his father said, in undertones, “would do better to stay well out of things. At least, until things blow over.”

Funny – Jean wasn’t that keen on things to simply ‘blow over’.

As they pulled into the final station, the man got off before Jean, tipping his hat silently but saying nothing else. Jean scowled in his general direction as he tucked the paper under his arm and took hold of his suitcase. His fingers still trembled. He tried to ignore it. “PRINCETOWN,” the conductor hollered. “LAST STATION STOP AT PRINCETOWN, ALL CHANGE, ALL CHANGE.”

God, Jean wanted to hit him. He didn’t need reminding of where he was. He happened to glance out of the window one final time, and saw that the frosted part of the glass was already fading back to normal. As though he’d never been there.

Stepping off the train and onto the platform felt as monumental to Jean as a stumble into a puddle, but as he squinted up at the stonework buildings and the small hanging sign proclaiming the place to indeed be Princetown, he felt a little part of his stomach shrink. Things were grey here, but this wasn’t the sort of grey he knew from back in London. This was empty space, the pause between songs or the fuzz after a newsreel finished its story. Jean resolved it in himself to dislike the place immediately. He took a step forward – and his shoe sunk into a puddle. God _damnit._

“Lad!”

Jean looked up.

“Yeah you, town mouse.” Standing about a foot away from everyone else greeting their families or loved ones was a woman, arms folded and a severe look about her. He wasn’t sure if she was older than his mother, but there was an air about her that suggested she knew far more. Lines were etched deeper into her face, and her hair was in the process of turning iron grey from the jackdaw black it had once been. She was a severe looking woman; wiry, and with the look of a shrewd terrier about her, there was something in the thin line of her mouth that kept the rest of the folk away. Jean had to guess this was who he was meeting.

He hauled his suitcase over, still shaking his dripping wet foot, the woman made no move to help him. She just watched him struggle, with an element of amusement in her expression that incensed him. When he reached her, panting, she merely offered him a broad smile. “If you’re struggling with that suitcase, you’ll be having some tough days ahead of you, you know.”

Jean gritted his teeth. Ah. So this _was_ the woman, then. Of all the luck in the world. “Pollyanna?” he inquired.

“Pol,” she corrected him.

Jean frowned. “My father calls you Pollyanna in his letters.”

“And you father forgets how hard I used to hit him whenever he called me Pollyanna. It’s Pol to you.” She unfolded a hand for Jean to shake, which he did tentatively. “Welcome to Dartmoor. Quite the place, this is.” She jerked her head towards, no doubt, the road. “We got a bit of a ride to the farm. I got the trap out back.”

Jean blinked. “I’m… I’m sorry, the trap?”

“Yes, the trap.” Pol pushed off the post and stretched, the bones of her spine popping unpleasantly. She wasn’t wearing skirts or a dress like the other women about the station, Jean noticed; she was wearing oversized trousers and a blouse that ruffled up at its top that appeared to be causing a great deal of scornful looks from the other women on the platform. Pol seemed to swat their attention aside like they were nothing but irritating gnats. “Got it nice and oiled for you, don’t you worry. Nothing but the best for our great and gracious London guest.”

Jean detected the sarcasm, but decided not to bite. At least someone else didn’t seem keen on him being there, either. “I’m just here to work, ma’am,” he said, following her lead. “Just doing my bit to help.”

“You could help by fighting in the bloody war,” was the answer thrown back at him.

Jean really did have to bite his tongue at that point.

He was led to a small trap pulled by a dark bay pony, champing at its bit nervously. It had a sour expression on its small face, and Jean had to jump out of the way of being bitten as he passed by. “Don’ go touching her,” Pol instructed, almost a second too late. “She’s a bad-tempered little rascal.” Jean made a mental note to not touch anything unless told he could, however friendly it seemed, and got into the trap behind Pol. He made sure to place his suitcase between his knees, to stop it from getting too jostled. Pol clicked her tongue and flicked the reins, and the pony sprang to life.

“How far is it to your place?” Jean asked over the din of wheels on loose ground.

“About an hour or so,” Pol replied, and Jean’s stomach sank even further down. “You best get yourself comfortable. Take in the scenery – there’s lots of it.”

And so there was – but not the sort of scenery Jean was used to. Princetown, he thought, was a bleak sort of place. There was a handful of houses clustered together around a village green and post office, and a number of small greengrocers and bakers all pushed together in a neat little row. It didn’t take long to get out of the main centre – a far cry from how long it took to leave central London – but a large building loomed over the sleepy village that piqued Jean’s curiosity. When his host caught him looking, she answered his silent question. “That there’s the prison. Nasty pieces of work locked up there, murderers and the like. You know why?”

Jean shook his head, still looking up at the imposing figure the building cut into the skyline.

“Cus there ain’t nowhere for them to go if they escaped out here,” she said, with a nasty smile. “If they got out, all they’d do is wander the moor for days, weeks, months, ‘til they died of starvation or thirst.”

Jean turned away, focusing instead on the pony’s ears. “Isn’t that a pleasant thought,” he muttered.

The journey took them into the heart of the moor. Jean had never strayed this far into the countryside’s heart before, and now he was here he wasn’t sure quite what to think of it. There was something heavy about the place, something crushing, that made Jean believe it wasn’t as empty as he’d first thought. The land was shrubbery and pale, lethargic grass, and on occasion the bones of the earth seemed to break loose in the form of rocks and stone. This was it, Jean thought as he pressed his knees tight around his suitcase. He really had arrived on some distant world.

Pol cleared her throat after a few minutes, and Jean braced himself for what was to come. “Now we got ourselves some ground rules,” she began, turning her head from the road to fix him with those narrow, calculating eyes of hers. “You’re coming with us to Church every Sunday, no excuses. Secondly, if anyone asks, you couldn’t enlist for medical reasons.”

Jean frowned. “But-”

“You don’t want the folk around here knowing you’re a conchie, boy. Trust me when I say that ain’t gonna work in your favour.”

Jean sighed, and folded his arms against his chest like a scolded child. “Anything else I should know?”

“You ain’t to be sidling up to the young girls and behaving in any way improper with them. Half of them have sweethearts in Flanders who’d quite easily beat you to the ground as soon as look at you.”

Jean stifled a snort. That _really_ wasn’t going to be a problem.

“In a nutshell,” Pol concluded, “you’ll work the land and you’ll work hard. If you don’t, I’ll cart you straight back to your mother and father and they can figure out what to do with you.”

Jean began to feel, more and more, like a stray cat nobody particularly wanted. He sank down into the seat of the trap, and willed the landscape to pass him by quickly.

They travelled in companionable silence after that, the only noise the sharp tap of the pony’s hooves. Jean only began to pay attention again when he began to catch sight of fences and small stone walls, the tell-tale signs that there were other humans beside themselves out on the moor. Pol turned the trap to the right, following the fences’ meandering paths up a slight hill. The pony puffed and panted as it pulled its way straight up, though Jean noted that Pol was kind enough to let the animal take it at its own pace. As the trap peeked over the slope, Jean caught sight of what was to be his home for the foreseeable future.

Old Forge Farm was not a place Jean was familiar with. His father had visited a few times as a young boy, a small connection in families and friendships allowing him the pleasure of holidaying here for much of his childhood, but things didn’t appear to have changed since then. It was named aptly, although there hadn’t been a blacksmith’s forge there for as long as anyone could remember. The little farmhouse stood at the end of the path was small and squat, and iron grey to match the skyline it buckled under. There was a thin trail of smoke coming from the chimney, reminiscent of steam from a blacksmith’s cooling pail, and there appeared to be a stable or two wedged in beside the large front door. They were both empty. Jean stared at them, even as they got close, but the trap didn’t slow down. Pol was taking him past the house, past the little chimney with the promise of warmth and shelter, and towards the large barn that loomed above them.

It was a giant of a thing, that barn. Jean thought it impossible that it could have been built so long ago by just workman’s hands and the strength of horses. It just looked as if it had sprouted up from the ground one day and grown tall over the decades, its mossy walls and huge wooden door looking very much like the sort of thing Jean had seen in miniature along the road.

The yard they trotted into was teeming with life. A cacophony of animal noise rang through the air, as though greeting them, and heads appeared over the doors of two more stables. These heads belonged to a pair of rather magnificent shire horses, and they blew through their noses at the intruders to their peace. Jean peered down at the wheels of the trap to see chickens pecking around the cracks in the cobbles, pushing and shoving at each other bossily.

Pol merely tutted and threw the reins onto the seat beside her. “Bloody animals, they should’ve been fed by now,” she grumbled. Somehow, Jean knew that was his fault. She got down from the trap less than elegantly – she stumbled on the dismount, but Jean wasn’t able to catch her. He wasn’t sure he would have tried, even if he could. She straightened up with a sniff and a brushing down of her blouse, and shot him a questioning glare. “Come on down, then. I’m not going to roll out no red carpet.”

Jean felt the heat creeping up to his face too late, and gabbled an apology as he stepped out. He landed a little more surefootedly than Pol, and immediately sensed the burn of the woman looking him over. He felt like an animal just bought from market, and he was almost waiting for Pol to demand he open his mouth so she could take a look at his teeth. Still, she seemed somewhat satisfied, as she gave a small nod and a sigh. “Well, you ain’t no Goliath, but you’ll do.” With a short huff, she turned and walked back towards the farmhouse.

Jean hesitated. There was a chicken in his way, and she clucked disapprovingly as he stepped over her. He then followed Pol as slow as he could without having to drag his feet. Some of the chickens followed him, flapping at his heels and attempting to peck at his shoelaces, but lost interest when they saw they were not about to be fed. They wandered back to the yard, and Jean wandered into the farmhouse.

The inside felt far more homely than he’d expected. There was no coldness to the rooms here; they all seemed busy and bright, like they were all part of the same conversation that kept skipping from room to room. Pol led him to the kitchen, which was one of the darker parts of the house, and set a kettle on the stove. “Take off your coat, boy, you must be frozen solid. Go warm yourself by the fire.”

She sounded kinder as she said it, more caring, and Jean knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. He draped his coat over one of the kitchen chairs and stood by the fire, sighing as the low flames began to thaw his cold-locked limbs. He could hear Pol clattering around in the kitchen, but he let her be for the moment. He didn’t want to begin the awkward questions anymore than she did. Only when he heard her footsteps coming towards him did he look up. “Thank you for letting me stay, ma’am. I appreciate it, as does my family.”

“Don’t say thank you until you see what work I’m gonna put you to.” A mug of something warm and steaming was placed in his hands, and he cradled it gratefully. “There’s a lot of work to be done this winter, lots of herding and ploughing and fence fixing. It’ll be hard work for a boy who only knows his books.”

“Father told you about my studies?” Jean asked.

“Didn’t have to. I could tell. Got the look of a scholar about you.” Pol moved to the table and slumped down there, placing her chin in her hand. “So tell me, is that why you decided not to go to war?”

Jean swallowed painfully. Ah. So they were going right into the ins and outs, were they? He took a seat too, gently moving the cup from hand to hand across the table as he answered, “Not exactly. But you’re right, I’m something of a scholar – I’m an artist, actually. I was studying at The Slade.”

“Why did you stop?”

Jean hesitated before answering honestly, “It became somewhat improper to study the beauty of things, with something so ugly going on around us.”

Pol raised a brow at this, but seemed impressed by his answer. “So an artist is what you are, then. You speak like a poet, too.” Jean flushed at the praise. “Well, you’ll find plenty to take your imagination here. When you’re not working, you should visit the village. Quite the few pretty spots to find some of that beauty you’re searching for.” Her eyes hardened. “Unless of course you’re more of the figure painting kind.”

“I’m all kinds,” Jean answered. “I was working on portraits before I left the Slade, but I’ve done an awful lot of landscapes too. It would be nice to see what I could find here.” He thought it best not to add that the life model he’d been using for his work spent far more time in his bed than stood in pose.

“I see. Well I’m sure there are a few pretty ladies who wouldn’t mind sitting for a picture or two.” Pol gestured to the cup in his hands. “Drink. You’ll get warmer quicker if you do.”

Jean obediently tipped the cup to his lips, and found that it was a rather bitter coffee. He drank it anyway, without complaint.

Pol looked as though she wanted to say something more, but was interrupted by footsteps that came from the back of the kitchen. A whistling started up, light and whimsical, and Jean noticed the way that Pol, so hell bent on getting answers out of him, rolled her eyes and leant back in her chair, all signs of sharpness gone. “You best not be getting mud all over that floor, young man!” she called out.

Jean stiffened. _Young man?_

The whistling continued, a lilting little tune that Jean recognised from London. It was a faint memory, something dapped with the taste of bad whiskey and second-hand cigar smoke, but it was something hopeful and playful that he remembered bringing a smile to his face. Still, it didn’t feel as though it belonged in the bright little kitchen. When the owner of the whistle stomped into the room and leant against one of the dark beams, Jean almost dropped his cup.

Oh, Jesus _Christ_ , this could not be happening.

The boy that filled the space between Pol’s shoulder and the arch of the kitchen was about his age, with a shaggy mop of dark hair that Jean was sure had once been pressed against his shoulder, and strong shoulders that Jean was certain he’d draped himself over. He wasn’t the same as he’d been all those months ago though; this boy was relaxed, smiling, and definitely not wearing a suit that was a bit too small. He was still whistling, even as he leant over and gave Pol a brief hug, and stopped only when she batted him away with a snort. “Oh come on now, Aunt Pol, I got the herd in for you. That deserves a smile, doesn’t it?”

Pol reached up to pat the boy’s cheek and said without even looking at him, “Jean Kirschtein, I’d like you to meet my nephew, Marco Bodt.”

Jean really did drop his cup.

Thankfully, it didn’t have far to fall – it merely clattered onto the table, causing both Marco and Pol to look to him enquiringly. When Marco’s eyes fell on him, large and brown and very much the ones Jean had fallen into quite recently, Jean swore he saw them widen.

“I – uh – I beg your pardon, I’ll clean this up,” he gabbled, rising from his seat to search for a dishcloth.

“Clumsy boys shouldn’t be sent to work on farms,” Pol sighed, waving a hand in Marco Bodt’s general direction. “Do help him out, dear, before he breaks further crockery.”

 Marco took a fraction too long to move without it seeming as though he’d merely not heard her. “Sure,” he said, sounding absent as he drifted back to the kitchen.

Jean sank back into his chair, the panic setting in. He knew exactly where he’d seen Marco Bodt before, and it certainly wasn’t in Dartmoor.

They were not meant to have met again. They were not meant to even recognise each other. The dance hall had been dark and full of pressing, stumbling bodies, but the light hadn’t failed as much as Jean would have liked it to. _Oh dear God,_ he thought as he pushed the cup away with trembling hands, _he really was in trouble now._

Marco came back over and took the cup from Jean’s hands, a frown that seemed almost puzzled crossing his face as he looked at him. God, his eyes, yes, how could Jean have forgotten those? Brown like coffee, the kind his mother imported from Italy for her finer tastes. Jean wondered if Marco was doing the same, looking him over and remembering his eyes or his hair or his stature. If he was, he was doing an incredible job of not showing it. Without taking his eyes off him, Marco asked, “Who’s your friend, Aunt Pol?”

“He is not my ‘friend’,” Pol snorted from her seat, ignorant of the sudden atmosphere Jean had created around them, “he is here on a favour. And to work.”

Marco let out a short, soft sigh. “Is that so?” His eyes never left Jean’s though, still prodded, still probed.

Jean didn’t even have it in him to make a sarcastic comment in response. He just cleared his throat and looked away, taking the spilt cup back from Marco and sidling away from the table. “I’ll just put this in the sink for now,” he said, though why they needed a running commentary he didn’t know. “I’ll, uh, wash up the rest of the things here too. Where’s the soap?” He talked too much when he was nervous, always had done. He was one of two extremes – he would either talk about nothing, or clam up and refuse to utter a word. At the moment, he was hoping that his chatter would break through the cold fear in his body and the feeling in the room.

“Here.” The soft voice appeared at his shoulder, and dropped a grubby bar of soap into his hand.

Jean had to try exceedingly hard just to put his fingers around the soap without it flying from his grip. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Jean could feel Marco’s gaze burning the back of his neck, but he refused to look around.

“Marco, Jean comes from London,” Pol was saying, making sure that the word ‘London’ sounded as unappealing as possible. “Funny, you were in London only a few weeks ago, weren’t you dear?”

Jean wanted to curl up in a dark corner and never come out. There was no mistaking it, then. This Marco was definitely the one who had been in the dance hall that night, the one when there had been a police raid. The hall that, oh so conveniently, was stamped across the inside page of the newspaper. He made a mental note to throw the damned thing away as soon as he could.

Marco, on the other hand, simply nodded. “That’s right, I was there. It’s a little different to here, Aunt Pol, but I think you’d like it.”

“Oh pish,” she said, waving a hand as though batting away Marco’s diplomatic words, “London would fit me like a boot on the wrong foot. No sir, I like my greenery and animals too much to go to a place with such smoke.”

Marco made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat and offered another glance Jean’s way. This time, Jean let their eyes meet. “I don’t know,” Marco said, staring right at him, “I believe London has its up sides.”

Jean gave a swift nod and returned to the dishes, his cheeks burning. He didn’t like the way his heart was trying to leap out of his throat with every sickening pound it gave in his chest. He also didn’t like the way he somehow felt light and soft despite all of that. Once he was sure Marco had moved away, the talk turning to the farm, he pressed the heel of his hand against his head and willed himself to stop thinking, just for a minute.

This stay was suddenly a hell of a lot more dangerous than signing up to a bloody War.

* * *

Of course, Jean had gone to bed that night wanting to talk to Marco. They’d eaten a meal together in a careful silence, with only a few words sprinkled in to balance the room on its precarious position of tension and tranquillity. Jean was sure Marco wanted to talk to him too, a kind of desperate eagerness in those eyes of his that wasn’t subtle, but the distinct presence of Pol meant they couldn’t say a word. She was talking about the farm, about how long it had been in the family and how, eventually, it would be Marco’s to own and run himself. And Marco talked, of course he did; he spoke about the animals, the harvest the previous year, and the village with all its numerous cottages and landmarks.

But that wasn’t the sort of talk Jean wanted, and they both seemed to know it.

But there was no opportunity. Marco slipped away from the dinner table before Jean had finished his glass, an apologetic smile thrown in the direction of a disapproving Pol and a lingering glance on Jean, too long to be innocent. When Jean watched his progress out the back door, Pol tutted. “Bedding the animals down for the night, I suspect. He’s a good boy, Jean, he does what’s needed of him and we never quarrel. A more mild-mannered boy you’ll never meet.” She leant back in her chair and cocked a brow the way other people would cock a rifle. “Perhaps you can learn a thing or two from him.”

And that was it. No more Marco. When Pol decided to turn in and the fire dimmed under the mantle, Jean felt his last remaining hope burning low with it. “Where am I to stay?” he asked, as Pol scraped back her chair and got to her feet.

“You’ll be in my son’s old room,” she said, sounding faintly odd as she said it. “He’s… away at present.”

Jean didn’t need to ask. He knew she meant the war. “I should probably get some sleep too. It was a long train journey from London.”

“But of course.” Pol smiled at him then, a kind she hadn’t granted him yet. Jean came to realise that it was her genuine smile, the real one. “It’s just next door to Marco’s. I’m sure you won’t mind.”

Jean’s heart both dipped and soared at the same time, like a boat atop a rough sea. Fate really was kicking him whilst he was down, wasn’t it?

The room was simple enough, with a few items to show it was lived in; a small stack of books, a wardrobe filled to bursting with clothes that were far too big for Jean to ever fit into and a couple of photos, full of grinning people and frozen laughter that felt like they were mocking him as he walked past them. “How fitting,” Jean said aloud, turning about the room, “having a man who will not fight staying in the room of a man who chose to.”

He took to unpacking a few necessary things, hoping that if he toyed with time just a little longer that something might happen – but what did he want to happen? Did he want Marco to storm in, demand to ask why he had come here and so rudely interrupted an idyllic situation? Did he want him to swoop in, crush their lips together and drive him hungrily towards the bed? _Maybe,_ Jean thought as he turned back to his bed, _I want a bit of both._ He wanted Marco to ask, because he wanted to talk.

The knock on the door almost an hour later still managed to surprise him. Jean crept to the door like a hunted animal, and made sure to take a deep, steadying breath before he pulled it open.

When he did, there was Marco.

He looked as though he had just come in from the yard; he still had straw clinging to his clothes and his hair stuck in all different directions. But he was there, he was turning his flat cap around and around in his hands, and he was… awkward. Marco Bodt was _awkward._

But Jean couldn’t give the game away. Not unless Marco wanted it to be over. He cleared his throat. “Good evening.”

Marco bit his lip. “Hullo.”

His greeting came out gruff and dark, and drove Jean to dig his nails into the doorframe. He was not going to fall to his knees for the sake of some words, he reminded himself. Instead, he cleared his throat again and said, “It’s…certainly nice to meet you.”

“Again.”

The reminder was gentle, and more than a little hurt. Jean opened his mouth, then closed it almost immediately. The urge to explain himself was something that crawled over him like a biting insect, trying to find a place to burrow in and sink its fangs deep. Because he did have to explain himself. He had to blame what had happened that night on _something_.

He could call it the drink talking, or the impending loneliness when his Slade friends went off to the Front and he stayed behind, stubborn but unrelenting. He could, in no way, say that he’d let Marco sit beside him that night simply because he wanted to get to know him. It all sounded so horrendous and wrong in his head that he wasn’t sure he’d be able to execute the lie at all – but he had to try. If he didn’t, and Marco decided to open his mouth, then it would all be over. Being ‘his sort’, as his father so aptly put it, required logistics and politics. It was never as simple as going up to a pretty boy and asking him to dance, like it was with a girl.

And they definitely _hadn’t_ been dancing.

But… then again, did Marco want things explained away? By the way he was standing there, by the fact that he’d _come,_ said more than most lies ever could. Jean ended up nodding, and mumbling, “again,” like a rumbled schoolchild.

When Marco next took a breath, Jean thought he was going to say it. Jean thought he was going to make an excuse, some paper-thin lie that would shield him from the truth for just a little longer.

Instead, Marco rested an arm on the top of the doorframe and leaned in close. “Look, I’m sorry for leaving you there.”

Jean blinked at him. That had not been what he was expecting at all. “I…er…it’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

“I want to worry about it.” Marco’s brows were knitting together as he frowned. “I shouldn’t have left you like that. It was rotten of me.”

Jean couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “There were police,” he said, pointedly, trying to remind Marco how serious the situation had been. “If they’d caught us…”

“I still feel bad.” Marco’s frown, if possible, deepened. “Were you alright?”

Jean wasn’t sure why that particular question hooked him between the rips and gave a harsh tug, but to his utter horror, he had to blink away tears. “I was fine, God…” He turned away, more to blink back the tears furiously than through any true annoyance. “No need to stare at me like I’m some sort of sick pup.”

Marco sighed. “Sorry. I just… wanted you to know that I didn’t want to leave you. And… and that I don’t want to hurt you, or make things difficult.”

God, he was being so gracious about it, like they’d had an argument in the street and not had their tongues in each other’s mouths. The shudder that rippled through Jean at that moment wasn’t altogether unpleasant either, which did not help matters in the slightest.

What he should have said was, “it was a mistake,” or, “we have to work in the morning”, but what he actually said, candidly stupid, was, “I didn’t want to leave you either.”

The heavy sigh that Marco let out was quaking, be it with relief or something far less innocent. He leaned still closer, and this time Jean let him. They pressed their heads together, just the feeling of Marco’s skin on his for a second allowing Jean the liberty to close his eyes and feel, for that second, like he was normal.

But then, the hallway was pierced with noise. “MARCO.”

They both bolted back from each other like a thread had been snapped, looking anywhere but at one another. “Coming, Aunt Pol!” Marco shouted back, his voice strained and tinny compared to how it had been moments before. He hesitated, a question in his eyes, but Jean gave a nod, and let him go.

Once the door was shut, he leant against it and told himself what a bloody mess he was going to make of everything. Running after a boy like that, a farm boy with no credentials and nothing to save him should things turn sour, was not one of his cleverer plans. But then he reached up and touched his forehead, the part where they had touched, and knew he really had no choice in the matter. He was truly hook, line and sinker, without a single hope of cutting loose.

* * *

He was woken the next morning before the sun had even peeked over the horizon by a loud rapping on his door. He grunted and pulled the covers high over his face. “Boy, get out here or I’ll drag you out!”

Pol.

She was hollering it through the keyhole at him.

Naturally.

Jean slunk out of bed and opened the door a crack, blinking at the bright light breaking in from the hallway. “What time is it?” he gurgled.

Pol was stood before him fully dressed and her hair pinned back. She looked as though she’d already been up for hours. “Five AM sharp, and you have to get up.”

He stared at her. “Five in the morning?” he repeated.

“Yep. Get dressed, the animals need feeding. Marco’s already out there. C’mon, get!” She slammed the door briskly in his face and trotted off to tend to her own chores.

Jean muttered something rude under his breath and eyed the clothes he’d laid out the night before on the back of a chair. Some trousers that had seen better days, and a shirt that he didn’t particularly care for – they would do. Still, as he pulled his clothes on and tried his best to smooth down his hair, there was that same warmth in his chest at the thought of seeing Marco. He didn’t want it to be there, but there it was, stubborn and tickling.

Once he got down to the kitchen and out the door (fervently ignoring the way Pol glared at him) he found himself almost immediately surrounded by excitedly clucking chickens. There were about eight of them in all, nut brown and larger than he ever expected. He blinked down at them.

“Uh…hello?” The chickens all stared right back at him, some tilting their heads like curious dogs. “I, uh, don’t have any food,” he said, and caught himself. He was stood outside a farmhouse, in his old trousers and shirt, talking to chickens. If his friends could see him now…

He sidestepped the smallest one and began to walk towards the yard. A chorus of offended clucks and squawks rose up from behind him, and when he glanced over his shoulder he saw the chickens following him, heads bobbing in unison. He kept going, his small feathery gathering stretching out in a trail behind him. When he reached the yard, the first thing he saw was Marco, emptying a sack of feed the size of a small child into a long, thin trough.

Despite the cold, he had no jacket and his shirt was rolled up to the elbows. The sack was propped on one of his shoulders, and though he staggered a little there was nothing to suggest he was finding it hard to carry. Jean hoped that he would find it just a little bit difficult, but once the trough was full he simply set the sack down as though it was nothing, puffing out a breath he’d clearly been holding in. When his eyes met Jean’s, he smiled. “Morning,” he greeted.

Jean’s insides began to squirm. Perfect. Exactly what he needed right now. Shaking himself, Jean shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled a bit closer. “Good morning.”

“Sleep well?”

“Acceptably,” Jean admitted. “It’s hard, when you’re used to noise, to suddenly come to a place that’s so quiet.”

Marco nodded, still smiling. “I felt the same when I was in London,” he said. “I often wondered how anyone could sleep in a city that so clearly doesn’t.”

Jean let his eyes flicker to the ground. _London._ He’d mentioned London. Marco had been brave the night before, and bold: how far would he step before he considered it too dangerous and doubled back, now the morning was upon them? Jean cleared his throat. “Get to see much of London, did you?”

Marco’s smile faltered. “Not so much. I was there on business, not much time for pleasure.”

“Except for the dance hall.” Jean couldn’t help it.

Marco’s smile fell off his face completely. He glanced around the yard as though mortified someone might be hiding in a trough or feed bucket, but when he was sure there was no one he pulled his jacket down from the peg it was hanging on and walked closer. “Except for the dance hall,” Marco repeated, “yes. Tell me, are you to make it your mission to expose me?”

Jean felt the familiar chill of fear trickle down his throat. “N-no, God, no, not at all. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” he gestured a hand at their current company. “I mean, I don’t think you’ll get much judgement from poultry.” 

As if on cue, the chickens at his feet noticed the grain Marco had just poured out. In delight at the feast, they crowed and shrieked and buffeted their way to the trough with little regard for their fellows. Marco laughed at them, despite himself. “Looks like you had quite the little family following you about. Don’t mind the girls, they get clingy when they’re hungry.”

“I noticed.”

The afterglow of laughter faded from Marco’s face. “Look, I apologise. I don’t mean to be so…”

“Nervous?” Jean waved Marco’s apology away. “Forget it. Nobody here knows. You’re being sensible. I should take your Aunt’s advice and start behaving more like you.”

Marco looked as though he wanted to ask what that meant, but seemed to think better of it. He shook himself, and gestured to the stable block. “Once I finish feeding the horses, we’ve got to take the sheep up to their day pasture. Then after breakfast you’ll have to help me fix one of the pasture fences. A ram got through there the other day, all but destroyed it.” He was all business, Jean noted, a person who was used to doing things on his own and to the letter. Did that make him lonely? Jean thought it might. “And then, if we have time, we might go pick some apples in the orchard,” Marco finished. “Then it’s back to the day pasture to bring the sheep back for the evening.” He swung the bag of feed over his shoulder again and raised an eyebrow in Jean’s direction. “Think you’re up for it?”

Jean blinked. He felt exhausted just thinking about all that. But he nodded nonetheless, and gave a shrug. “Sure.”

Marco’s smile returned, though it seemed a little more cautious. Jean made a mental note that, no matter what he wanted, he was not going to bring anything up with Marco unless Marco himself did the bringing up. Jean was used to being silent, after all.

Upon Marco’s low whistle, a black and white collie trotted around the corner, head up and tail wagging. She made a beeline straight for Marco, but instead of jumping up and demanding attention she stopped, sat down and looked up at him, awaiting command. “This is Shiloh,” Marco said, dropping a hand down to tickle the dog behind her ears. “She’s going to be helping us out this morning.”

Shiloh gave Jean a side-eye glance, and there was enough intelligence in her gaze for Jean to know that she was watching him very closely. “Hey, girl,” he said, reaching down to stroke her. She flattened her ears and leaned close to Marco with a growl. Jean retracted his hand pretty quick. “She, uh, doesn’t seem friendly.”

“She’s just a little protective,” Marco answered, as if that was any better. “Anyway, she has a job to do. Go on, go find them!”

Shiloh bounded away from his side and loped towards the barn. Marco beckoned Jean towards a small pen he hadn’t noticed before. It was a small semi-circle just to the side of the ancient barn, and inside were a dozen or so extremely fluffy sheep that Shiloh was staring at very intently. Jean had seen plenty of sheep before of course, and these were nothing special, but seeing so many of them crammed into one space was a little alarming.

They bleated for Marco when they saw him, and Marco offered Jean another smile of his. “They’ve already been fed their grains, so all we have to do is show them the way to the day pasture. Or, rather, I will and you and Shiloh will make sure there aren’t any stragglers. Is that fine?”

Jean had no idea how un-fine he would be. He quickly found out that sheep were fundamental idiots and would simply wander wherever they wished so long as there was a scrap of food on offer. Shiloh, to her credit, did a hell of a lot more than Jean thought capable of a single dog; she ran amongst the herd and kept them in line simply by appearing beside them, like a piebald ghost. The sheep would run, Shiloh would chase, and soon they would be back in a bundle again. Marco kept to the side at first, flanking one side of the herd whilst shouting commands to Shiloh on the opposite side. Jean simply walked behind, hoping that a sheep wouldn’t decide to make a bid for freedom in his direction. Thankfully, the thought of an open pasture with all the grass they could eat appeared far more tempting than staying in the farmyard, and so under the firm instruction of Marco and Shiloh, they headed out of the yard at a steady pace.

Marco kept a stick in one hand, and was waving it in a low arc next to the sheep on his side until he reached the front. “Jean, move around to the side!” he ordered, and like the sheepdog Jean just did it without being asked twice. With the stick slightly raised above Marco’s head, it worked like a beacon to the sheep in front and soon Jean was just walking calmly alongside them, casting glances over to Shiloh on the other side. She was walking too, pausing at times to sniff spots or nudge one of the younger animals back into line.

Marco had neglected to inform Jean that the walk involved a great deal of uphill striding. He also left out how, on the top of the hill where the sheep would settle, the cold would tear through Jean like a biting animal. As a result, once they got to the right place, Jean was not only sweating like a pig but also felt close to freezing. It wasn’t a pleasant combination.

After breakfast, Jean figured he’d take the sheep herding any day. Fixing fences was easily one of the dullest jobs he’d ever had to face – and he’d filed in an office. Marco showed him how to use the twine and affix the wood to the right place before hammering in the nails – and even then, he had to show Jean how to do it without hitting his thumb by mistake. “You’re not a country boy, are you?” Marco asked, after Jean had narrowly avoided bludgeoning his hand with the hammer.

“How did you guess?” Jean said, sarcastically.

Marco laughed. “Honestly, you never came out here before the war?”

“Didn’t need to.” Jean straightened up, and immediately wished he hadn’t thanks to the twinge in his back. “I was born and raised in a city I love.”

“You said you were an artist.” Marco was still hammering in the nails as he spoke, some of the small iron prongs still sticking out of his mouth. “Surely you know of the beauty that lives out here?”

Jean must have looked unconvinced, because Marco spat out the nails and beckoned him to get up. Jean blinked at him. “Wha-?”

“Give me your hand. I need to show you something.”

Jean wordlessly allowed himself to be pulled up, Marco’s strength a thing he was certain not to forget in a hurry. Marco led him over to a small hill, the kind even Jean could scale without a problem, and hauled him up to the top. Stretched out before them, like the pelt of a fallen animal, was the moor. Standing atop the hill, Jean felt very small indeed.

“See those upright stones over there? The ones arranged in a circle?” Marco pointed. “They’re called the Spinster Stones. They say that they were once young women, turned to stone for dancing on the Sabbath. Other people say they were devils, cursed into stone by a travelling priest.” Jean squinted. The stones stood there, silent and alone, and he found himself imagining them as beautiful girls, dancing endlessly without a care before divine intervention got so rudely in the way. “See, this place doesn’t need to be beautiful in the way you imagine beauty to be,” Marco said. “It has stories that paints the beauty in for you.”

“Stories are definitely the sort of beauty I can get behind,” Jean said.

Marco beamed at him, and Jean came to thinking that he should start complimenting the folklore this place held more often. It was only then that he realised that Marco was still holding his hand. Once his eyes fell to them, Marco loosened his grip, a little embarrassed, but Jean squeezed back, encouraging. Marco bit his lip and brought Jean’s hand up to his eyeline, skimming his thumb along the creases of his palm. Jean sucked in a breath and curled his fingers in response, wanting more than ever to lace their fingers together.

But Marco wasn’t done; his fingers, deft as they were, slipped under Jean’s sleeve and pressed into the veins they found there, Jean’s frenzied pulse rapping a beat against those fingertips. Marco smiled. “Now who’s the nervous one?”

Jean swallowed painfully, his pulse still jumping under Marco’s careful touch. “I…”

“It’s alright. It really is very endearing, seeing you nervous.” Marco sighed softly and drew away. “But alas, it’s as I feared.”

A fresh wave of fear came over Jean. “What?”

Marco’s smile came back. “You truly are a weak blooded city boy.”

Jean gave him a playful smack on the shoulder, and Marco’s laughter rang out like bells across the moor.

* * *

And so it went, for the next few days. They herded the sheep up to the pasture in the morning, then got on with the real work until dusk, when they would have to go and fetch the sheep back down the hill. The days were spent running various tasks; building fences around pastures, sowing seeds, picking apples. It would have been idyllic if your idea of a good time was arriving home covered in sweat and begging for a warm bath by the fire.

For Jean, it was utter torture – and not because of the work.

It was somehow worse than if Marco was ignoring him. On the contrary, Marco was very, _very_ aware of him. He never let it show in his speech, but the looks he gave and the touches that lingered made things crystal clear. Marco was not backing away. He was nervous of what things meant, certainly, but he was not nervous of showing it around Jean. It was a first, Jean had to admit; usually, once the lights went up and the day began anew, the men he’d known weren’t keen to be seen in the same room as him, let alone within a few feet of him.

Marco, however, made an effort to be near him.

During the evenings, he would sit down in the drawing room to read and Jean would bring out his sketchbook, banished by Pol to his bedroom since his arrival. He was sure Marco knew that, more often than not, the sketches Jean made were of a figure with a copy of Keats or _Lorna Doone_ sitting on its lap, or propped against the arm of a chair. Marco never asked to see them, and Jean was somewhat grateful for that. Pol tutted whenever she saw his sketchbook out, but it soon became a chiding, soft sort of annoyance.

The largest problem was Jean was getting _comfortable_ about the farm, even after only a few days. As those days turned to a week, he felt as though the land was reaching up its roots and claiming him as one of its own – and he had no qualms about that whatsoever. He wrote to his parents a few times, explaining that he was helping along the war effort with his planting and his animal-rearing, and the correspondence that came back was full of statistics, of death tolls and land gained or lost. Jean stopped reading the letters, and they stopped arriving. It was silly of him, of course, to block out the turmoil that was going on just over the water – but it was the only way he could cope with it.

Well, that and Marco. Every smile became something Jean worked for, something he wanted to bottle up and keep for the nights when he felt more alone than ever without someone next to him. He often got to thinking about how Marco was in the next room along, in a bed pushed against the wall. His wall. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly weak, he would tap quiet tunes against the wall with his knuckles, and smile as, shortly after, he would get the tune repeated back to him from the other side. They knew better than to slip into one another’s rooms, especially when Pol was around, but having that reassuring knock from the other side of the wall made Jean feel as though, if he imagined hard enough, Marco could be in the bed beside him.

But God, it was dangerous to think that way. It was more than dangerous, it was _illegal,_ and if Jean’s parents ever knew of the thoughts swirling around his head he would lose their protection – and far worse. But, remarkably, that only seemed to heighten the appeal.

Jean felt as though they were circling one another, Marco and he, darting in and drawing away in turns and spins like courting birds. Every time they thought they were alone, Pol would walk in, or an animal would need to be looked over, or an errand in town would call Marco away. Jean kept telling himself it was for the best, that keeping well away would be the better for the both of them – but the voice of reason in his head was becoming unsure of itself. Whenever Marco came back, a smile on his face and his hair an absolute mess from the wind outside, Jean’s chest would hiccup in just about the wrong sort of way, and Jean knew it was hopeless. The work distracted him. The fatigue distracted him. That was what he had to work on.

He had the perfect opportunity to do just that when Marco announced they were to plough one of the top fields ready for sowing. “The government’s issuing out new orders to farmers,” he explained that morning at breakfast. “They want more crops planted. They need more of everything, it seems. The rations… the soldiers aren’t getting enough.”

And there was the feeling again. The disgust. The squirming sensation in the pit of his stomach never ceased to amaze him with how awful it could make him feel. “I see,” Jean said, faintly. The soldiers. Of course. God forbid the generals would have to share their feasts with the poor souls out there, fighting for their cause with nothing to show for it but a pat on the back and a well done. Perhaps they would get some leave, time and again, to eat a little more than biscuits that cracked their teeth if not soaked in water or Bully Beef that had probably never seen a picture of a cow. He, by some grace, was able to keep his mouth shut.

He focused instead on the concept of ploughing, something about as alien to him as a trench. When Marco finished his breakfast Jean followed him out of the door, grabbing his jacket off the peg as he did so. He wondered when it had been promoted to a life on the peg instead of slung over the back of a chair. Maybe Pol liked him more than he’d first thought. It was this that convinced Jean that perhaps Marco had entrusted him with this sort of task because it was something he would be able to do with ease, or with a skill he hadn’t shown yet. However, when Marco led out the two Shire horses the size of small locomotives, both barrel-chested and pulling at the thin rope that tethered them to his careful hands, Jean was sure this was how he was going to perish.

One was ink black and the other was a deep, earthy bay, and both towered over Jean. Shiloh kept her distance, eyeing the giants with a cautious sort of respect despite her desire to be beside Marco. Their feathered feet were the size of drums, and when they lowered their heads and snorted heavily, the noise ricocheted through their round, behemoth bodies. Marco, sandwiched between the two of them, simply grinned and scratched a spot behind one of their ears. They were called Atlas and Phoebe, and Jean caught the irony in their names. Titans, after all, were precisely how they appeared to him.

Marco showed him how to harness them up, dropping the ropes entirely to work on Atlas whilst Phoebe, the bay, looked on. Jean snatched for the ropes anyway, and Phoebe blinked at him calmly as he straightened up with the end of her rope. “She won’t go anywhere,” Marco called out from under Atlas’s belly. “She’s trained to stand until we ask her to move.”

“Huh.” Jean peered at her. Phoebe peered right back. “How come you still have these? Thought they would have been commandeered for the war effort by now.”

Marco ducked under Atlas’s head to fasten the throat lash of his bridle before replying. “Aunt Pol is persuasive. An army man came to look them over, but she said there was no way we were going to let them go. They’re the best Shire horses this side of the river, and the whole village knows it. They’ll do better work here, working the land to feed our boys at the Front.”

“Surprised the man came away empty-handed.”

Marco sighed. “Not completely.” He gestured to the empty stable by the farmhouse, the one that hadn’t held a single creature since Jean had been there. The nameplate on the door was written in cracked blue paint. “He took Pooka.”

Jean raised a brow. “‘Pooka’?”

“My horse.”

Jean stopped his staring match with Phoebe to stare at Marco. He was intentionally not looking at anything, especially at Jean. “They took your horse?” Jean asked.

Marco’s sigh sounded more heartbroken than Jean had ever felt. “She’s a black mare, Pooka. Hot-headed and fast as the Devil.” The quirk to his mouth was meant to make a smile, but it failed. “We were meant to go to war together. I was going to sign up to the mounted regiment, so I could keep hold of her. But she beat me to it.” Marco bit his lip and shook himself, turning back to Atlas with a weak chuckle. “I bet she’s loving it, all that charging about. Always did like scaring the living daylights out of anything with a pulse. But these two,” he patted Atlas’s flank affectionately, “there isn’t any point in putting these two in a war. They’d run like hell.”

Jean reached out a hand and scratched Phoebe’s nose with his fingertips. The Shire leant into the gesture of affection with a soft sigh. “Shame no one else sees it that way,” he muttered, “especially when it comes to men as well as beasts.”

Marco frowned, but said nothing. He finished harnessing Atlas, and then offered his reins for Jean to take care of whilst he worked on Phoebe. Jean gazed at the horse, champing its teeth against the metal in its mouth and tossing its head in order to see from behind the blinkers, and thought of the poor creatures getting trained up further East. He thought of Pooka, this mare of Marco’s that would probably never come back. He wondered if she was being taught to run against guns, the generals perhaps hoping that horseflesh could beat the steel of a bullet. She didn’t stand a chance – none of them did. He’d never thought about Marco wanting to go to war – it hadn’t ever crossed his mind, not once – but now he had more questions churning around his head.

Atlas threw his head back, the merry jingle of his harness breaking Jean out of his reverie, and when Marco handed Phoebe’s reins to him too so he could fetch a jacket, he couldn’t quite rid himself of the scene he’d conjured in his mind.

Marco returned with a moth-eaten coat and the familiar flat cap crushed atop his head. His hair curled out from under it, as though it were trying to escape. God, Jean thought as he gazed unabashedly at Marco, he’d never known the farmboy routine made him so weak.  Marco, miraculously, didn’t seem to notice the way he stared. “Come, let’s get to the field. Then we can put them to work, as well as you.”

Jean rolled his eyes, though smiled against his better judgement. “Hilarious.”

They set off together, Marco taking Atlas’s reins and walking beside Jean, who held Phoebe. Their shoulders brushed together often as they walked, and every inch of contact sent that selfsame tremor through Jean’s system that always happened. He had to stop looking forward to it.

“So, you’re one of them,” Marco said, so out of the blue it stopped Jean in his tracks. Phoebe obediently halted too, and glanced down at him in gentle confusion. He raised an eyebrow in question, trying not to betray the way his stomach had turned cold to match the temperature outside. Marco stared right back at him, before concluding, “an objector, I mean.”

“Oh.” Jean gave Phoebe a gentle tug, and started to walk again. “That.”

“I figured as much when you got here, but I was never quite sure and it didn’t feel proper to ask.” Marco shrugged. “But then again, you’re an easy sort to read.”

“I’ll be sure to bear that in mind,” Jean said, feeling far sicker than he was currently letting on. He bit his lip, giving Phoebe’s reins a gentle pull to force her into a more energetic walk. The sooner they got to the top of the hill, the better.

“It’s not a problem, you know.” Jean’s scepticism must have shown on his face, as Marco immediately protested, “It isn’t! Look, people have their reasons for the ways they think and the ways they act.”

Jean snorted bitterly. “You’re delightfully naïve if you believe that, Marco.”

Marco squared his jaw. “I honestly don’t see what the big fuss is about, your not wanting to go to war. I don’t see how it’s anybody’s business but your own.”

“Well, some would call it an act of treason,” Jean replied, “so I suppose it’s the Crown’s business.”

Marco frowned. “Well, I suppose I can see how people come to that conclusion.” Jean snorted bitterly at that. “Is that why you’re here? To prove those people wrong?”

Jean sighed. “Sort of. Daddy dearest wants me out of the way.”

“To save face?”

“I think that is fighting a losing battle already, more than any fight in the damn War.” Marco didn’t ask, and Jean didn’t elaborate. “I thought it best to stay away from the city. I miss London, of course, but there’s not much I can do there. If I had to sit through another endless war meeting for the greater good, I’d have topped myself. Much better off working out here. If I can’t bring the troops home, I can at least keep them as comfortable a possible whilst they’re out there fighting in this bloodbath.”

“Well, I think it’s very noble of you.” When Jean stared at him, he saw that there was a flush creeping under Marco’s collar. He tried not to be delighted about it. “You… you understand that there’s nothing to be done, and though you loathe what it is and what it stands for, you still wish to help. That’s not an act of treason at all.”

Jean, despite himself, let out a small laugh. It felt nice to do that, for once. “Well, being called noble beats being called a coward.”

Something set in Marco’s jaw, something strong and resolved. “I don’t imagine you’re a coward,” he said, and Jean detected a double meaning in his words.  

He raised a brow at him. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re a coward, either. Your…nerves seem to have vanished.”

To Jean’s surprise, the blush rose on Marco’s face. He even began to look a little _flustered._ “W-well, if it’s too much or I’m taking things a little too far-”

“You’re not doing that.” Jean said it before he had the chance to edit in his mind, and when Marco stared wide-eyed at him, he felt the edges of panic beginning to prickle around him. “I… I mean the attention… your attention, it… it’s not…uh… a-altogether unwarranted.”

Marco _really_ blushed then, and wheezed out a strained, “good,” before clicking his tongue again and persuading Atlas to pull away up the hill. Jean followed suit, his own blush faint but nevertheless there. This really was going to kill him.

By the time they reached the topmost field, the diluted sun was high in the sky. Marco left Jean with one of the horses as he went to fetch a contraption with the other. Jean knew, of course, what a plough was, but he’d never seen it up close. It was an ugly, unforgiving thing that had the look of a torture device instead of a farming tool. Marco showed him how to hitch the horses up, hooking the right sections of harness to the chains on the plough, and all the time he never let him stand idly by to watch. He was taking him by the shoulder, leading him close, getting him to hook the chains together with unsure fingers and giving him a smack on the back when he got it right.

Once the two horses were all hitched up, patiently blowing through their noses at the two boys surveying their handiwork, Marco folded his arms and grinned at him. “You’re a fast learner, you know.”

Jean smiled back. “You’re a good teacher.”

That caused the colour to rise again in Marco’s cheeks, and Jean had to stifle a laugh at the way Marco almost tripped over Atlas’s trailing reins.

The horses, Marco explained, did the hard work. They did the pulling. His (and by proxy, Jean’s) job was to make sure the plough stayed balanced and the spiked part of the it – Jean’s name for it, not Marco’s – stayed stuck in the earth and not imbedded into a thigh or more tender area.

“What do we do if that happens?” Jean asked faintly.

Marco shrugged. “Don’t know. It’s not happened to anyone I know.”

Jean deflated. “Fantastic. I’ll be the first case in Dartmoor’s history to lose a leg by plough.”

Marco chuckled. “You’ll be fine, Jean, just watch me.” He shed his coat, handing it to Jean for safekeeping, and turned to the horses. Jean was quick to note that not only did the coat smell of something distinctly Marco that wasn’t mud or farm, but the waistcoat and shirt that Marco wore underneath were a touch too tight. He was, after all, only human.

Marco took up the reins of both horses and gave a gentle cluck with his tongue. The horses seemed to wake from a doze and, after a moment of shifting their weight and testing the pull of their harness against the plough, threw their weight into their collars and began to move. It was clear to see why Marco’s family had chosen to name them after titans, especially those who held up the earth. These might not have been _holding_ the earth, but they were certainly wounding it. They pulled steadily, but with a power that cut deep gouges in the otherwise untouched field. Soil blossomed from beneath those gouges, and spilled over the grass like a weeping wound. With another encouraging cluck from Marco, the horses continued, fighting to dig those great scars with him at their helm.

Jean tried not to watch, he honestly did, but he couldn’t ignore the way Marco’s shoulders bunched as he pushed the spike down further into the earth. They were strong shoulders, the kind that had been moulded that way through time and manual labour, and Jean swore he could see the muscle twitching beneath Marco’s waistcoat and shirt. He folded the coat against his chest, the smell of country life definitely invading his nostrils, but that didn’t stop him staring.

This was wholly, completely unfair. First London, and now this. Fate really was truly knocking him over and kicking him in the gonads for good measure.

When the team turned around and began heading back up, Jean could see the way Marco was breathing heavily, as were the horses, but there was a pleased sort of grin on his face as he pulled them up beside him. Jean had never seen someone so proud of doing something so strenuous.

“Now your turn,” Marco said, gesturing to the plough like it was an open stage.

Jean blanched. “Uh…”

“Come on, it’s easy once you know how.” Marco manoeuvred him into place, throwing the coat haphazardly on the ground. He grabbed Jean’s hand and placed it on one handle of the plough, and did the same with the other. Jean liked to think that the hand, just for a moment, might have lingered. “You can’t stand straight,” Marco instructed, pressing a hand to the small of Jean’s back. “You have to…bend a little. See the way the horses tuck themselves into the movement? You have to do that too, to keep things steady.” He was leaning in close, close enough to tickle the hair behind Jean’s ear. He closed his eyes and willed himself with every fibre of his body not to make an absolute idiot of himself. But Marco’s hand on his back, and his voice in his ear, well – it was enough to drive anyone mad.

Needless to say, Jean made an absolute mess of the ploughing.

“Well,” Marco said, after Jean came back from his attempt. “You, uh, certainly got the ground tilled.”

Jean looked back at his handiwork – and his heart sank. “Yes,” he agreed, “but in that classic agricultural pattern known as the zigzag.”

Marco snorted out a laugh, taking the both of them by surprise. But once Jean got to laughing, and Marco’s gained some more fuel, they were leaning on each other to keep from falling over. The horses simply looked on, bemused at the two-leggeds, until Marco wiped the mirth from his eyes and took over.

“So, maybe ploughing isn’t your calling,” he said, when they broke for lunch. He’d brought a selection of bread and cheeses with them, wrapped up in a chequered cloth. Jean, his stomach rumbling, was all too happy to see it. They made themselves comfortable on Marco’s coat, spreading it down on part of the field that wasn’t already churned to mud.

Jean tore off a chunk of bread and reached for the cheese before Marco had properly unwrapped it. “I’m not sure _farming_ is really my calling,” he said.

Marco swatted his hand away and continued unwrapping their lunch, painfully slowly. “That’s what I thought when I first started, but you get used to it.”

“Yes, but the difference being you started farming when you were ten years old.” Jean gratefully accepted the cheese Marco handed him. “I’m a wizened old adult.”

Marco gave Jean a gentle nudge. “Maybe you shouldn’t presume things. I’ve only been doing this about three years.”

“Three years?” Jean dropped the bread into his lap. “What did you do before that?”

“I was at school in Bristol. Studying to be a doctor, like my father.” Marco leaned back on his hands and smiled, the wind catching the hair free of the flat cap. He didn’t appear to notice how fervently Jean was staring at him. “I grew up here, but we moved to Bristol when I was eleven. I studied there for a little while. Then my parents died, and I came back.” His smile softened as he gazed out over the gentle dips and curves of the land, still so wild and rocky. “I fell in love.”

Jean followed Marco’s eye, and finally saw it. It was so brief, he almost missed it, but it was there, a flicker of what Marco saw in the landscape. A magic, so strong that it twisted in his gut and snatched half a breath from his lungs. The land glowed like an undercover gem, lost to the ages but waiting to be found. Its bones were the rocks that jutted out from the moss and lichen, the rivers and streams its blood. The place had come alive, just for that moment, and then it became nothing more than grass and hills to Jean once more. Jean let out the rest of his breath. “I think I’m beginning to know what you mean,” he admitted, and felt Marco’s gaze flit to him. He bit his lip, trying to ignore the flush that was creeping under his collar at the scrutiny. “It feels…wild, almost. Like you couldn’t ever tame it, not completely.”

Marco nodded. “Exactly.” He took a mouthful of bread and cheese, and added with his mouth full, “It’s a beautiful place.”

Jean could forget the war, he realised, if he sat here forever. The land would move and shift the way it always did, but there would be nothing else except his heartbeat and the sky, and he would never have to know of the battles and the blood and the screams. It was an isolation that, though lonely, felt like a blanket he could wrap around himself. Maybe he really would feel better staying there. He shifted closer to the small selection Marco had brought and felt something tickle his nose. He looked down to find a white feather, _the_ white feather, tucked in his breast pocket like the cruellest possible reminder. He leaned back and sighed, plucking it free and twirling it between his fingers. It was the shirt he’d been wearing on his journey up from London. Of course. “I thought I’d gotten rid of you after the train,” he said to it.

Marco was watching it too, his brows drawn together and no trace of laughter on his lips. “Do you get given those often?” he asked.

Jean gave him a pained smile. “Enough to stuff a pillow with.”

“That’s awful.”

“That’s the world for you.” Jean paused. Now was the perfect time to ask, but he had to tread carefully. “Come to think of it, why aren’t you off fighting this glorious fight? I would have thought they’d be dying to have a lad like you in the army. They took your horse happily enough.”

It was Marco’s turn to look pained. “Medical reasons,” he answered.

Jean frowned. That must have been where Pol had gotten the idea from. “You seem in perfect health to me.”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, you’re clearly not. Anything I should worry about?”

Marco finished his mouthful of food and sighed. “Honestly, Jean, I’m fine. And so are you, seeing as a hole in the heart isn’t the type of ailment you can catch.”

Jean let go of the feather. With a sudden gust of wind, it twirled out of his grasp and drifted away, airborne again as it had been once before. For a while, the only sound was the quiet munching of the horses, feasting on whatever Marco had put in their feed bags. Jean found his voice a beat later. “You… you have a _hole_ in your heart?”

“Yes. Oh, don’t look at me like that, it’s not as bad as it sounds.” Marco pulled his cap off his head and began to twist it around in his hands. “It happens quite frequently actually. They usually heal over in infancy, but mine was… a little more stubborn that most.” He shrugged, but refused to look at Jean as he continued to toy with his hat. “It doesn’t affect my day to day life, but when I signed up they checked my pulse and thought it irregular. They took one look at my record and sent me packing. But, as you so cruelly remind, they kept my horse.”

“God, Marco, I didn’t know…”

“Of course you didn’t.” His eyes flashed up, and there was the sharp edge to the sadness reflected in them. “I don’t tell anyone because I don’t wish to be looked upon with pity, or like I’ll drop down dead in an instant. I don’t want to be looked at as though I’m something… different.”

There was, again, another meaning to those words. Jean was sure of it. Still, there was nothing he could say – how on earth could he even start? – so he finished his mouthful and leant back on his palms, taking in the scenery. “So you’re unfit for service, and I chose not to serve.” He glanced at Marco. He was looking at him carefully, brows slightly raised in expectation. What was he waiting for? Maybe some sort of snide remark about being the failures their families always wanted, he supposed – that was definitely the sort of thing he’d usually say. Instead, he cracked a smile and said, “Gosh, we’re the sort Lord Kitchener bashes at his dinner parties, aren’t we?”

Marco’s smile, absent but there, felt like Jean’s own little victory.

+++

That night, in the safety of his own room, Jean finally allowed himself the liberty of thinking back to the night he’d met Marco in London. He’d put it off long enough; he’d been able to shut the door on the memory in his mind, the way he was used to doing for many things, but now it swung open with a welcoming creak. It felt, cliché though it sounded, like the events of that night had happened but yesterday.

The dance hall he’d frequented sat on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Piccadilly Circus. When Jean could afford it and had more than a few coins in his pocket, he got the opportunity to step inside and become someone else for the evening. That was how it worked after all; nobody ever gave out their own names, just in case there was somebody sniffing about who shouldn’t have been. It was a way of staving off the loneliness for a little while, being amongst those who made you feel as if you fit into your own skin, and weren’t just wearing some secondhand cast-off.

But that night, Jean had felt especially lonely. One of his closest friends, Eren Jaeger, had enlisted weeks ago, but had only had the guts to tell him that morning, before a Life Class. “Nothing to be done, you know,” he said. “Have to go. Can’t not, there’s a score of fighting going on out there and I need to do my duty for King and Country.” Jean had known it was far more than that. Eren had a German name and a German lineage, and he couldn’t be seen doing anything except sign up. Jean understood, of course, but that hadn’t meant he was going to do the same. He, after all, also had a German name.

He’d gone to the dance hall to feel normal. That was all he ever did. There had been men that night who had approached him, men who smiled and talked and behaved as though the world was making perfect sense to them, but Jean made sure that all they did was talk. He waved away any free drinks or propositions posed to him, and explained he just wanted a quiet night. They all understood – many were already in their military uniform, terrified of being picked out as the kind who were dragging their heels. Jean let them come, let them talk, then let them leave, like watching butterflies behind a window pane. He’d untucked his sketchbook from his pocket and settled down for a quiet night indeed when a shadow had fallen across him and a voice had asked, “may I join you?”

He’d been tempted to say no – sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he had – but he’d made the grave error of looking up, and there had been Marco. His suit didn’t fit him properly. His hair was thick and flyaway, and not of the city style at all. He had his hands in his pockets, trying to look brave, but he also looked as though he was waiting for a gun to go off.

Jean, like a fool, had fallen for the Innocent Abroad gag on sight; enough, even, to give his real name and keep his sketchbook open on the table. Marco didn’t know any better – Jean definitely did.

But Marco had been funny. He’d talked, and Jean had wanted to listen. He’d pored over Jean’s sketchbook, humming appreciatively at the drawings he found particularly endearing, and Jean had been just as content tracing the lines of Marco’s face in his mind. There had been no way, none whatsoever, that he was going to get through the night without kissing him.

He’d said as much, after a couple of drinks and a lot of giddy, nervous laughter. Marco, punch-drunk and full of courage, had leaned in close. “Then why don’t you?” he’d murmured, soft and careful against the shell of Jean’s ear.

And, well, how could Jean refuse a question like that?

He tried to snap out of it, as he sat there on the edge of his bed with that pleasant prickly feeling coursing through him and… _other_ parts of him more than a little interested. Trying, however, didn’t appear to be good enough. He groaned, scrubbed a hand across his face and crossed the hallway to the bathroom. He filled up the sink with cold water and practically dove his head into it, his skin shrieking at the temperature. But he could still feel the ghost of the memory. The warmth of Marco’s lips against his. The crushing weight of a body falling against him, pushing him back, pressing him against a wall and fumbling for purchase where it could. The rustle of quiet, terrified laughter in between those kisses.

He resurfaced with a gasp, lungs aching, and pressed his fists into his eye sockets. He could not think about it. He couldn’t think about the hands he’d seen today buckling harnesses instead slipping under his shirt, twitching when they felt his muscles contract. He couldn’t imagine the lips that had pursed together in thought instead press hard, hot kisses against the side of his neck. He couldn’t, couldn’t _dare,_ let his heart get taken. He couldn’t afford to let it go – because if it did, there was no telling if it would ever come back.

He went back to his room, and there he stayed. He locked the door, just to be sure. He couldn’t have Marco coming to him tonight, if he wanted to come at all. There was no telling, in the state he was in, what words might betray him. Because here, in the world where a war was being waged and men were dying, what he was could not be normal. Like the Neverland of Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up, the illusion would fade and he would return to his life. He would grow up. Thing was, he didn’t think he was ever going to grow out of loving someone like Marco.

He got a knock on his wall late into the night. It was in the tune of a march Jean recognised, something that had been played to drum up recruitment back home. He couldn’t bring himself to answer.

* * *

The next morning, no one came to wake him up. He woke anyway, his body already becoming accustomed to the timings of the farm, and as he squinted through the gaps in his curtains he saw the early morning rising to greet him. Grumbling, he scrubbed the last remnants of dreams and sleep from his head and dressed quickly, wondering if perhaps he’d overslept and Marco had gone on without him. Would Marco go on without him?

Pol was in the kitchen when he got to the bottom of the stairs; he could hear her bustling about, taking no care to be quiet. When he emerged, she propped a hand on her hip and tutted. “There you are, sleep in did you?”

“Apparently so.” He frowned at the distinct lack of Marco in the room. “Where’s-?”

“Marco went to the village,” Pol answered, before he had the chance to ask. “He took the herd up earlier this morning, didn’t care to wake you. Think he’s soft on you, you know. Letting you sleep in like that, whatever next?”

“How very sweet of him,” Jean said.

Pol laughed and passed him a steaming cup of what he assumed was coffee, which he accepted with a brief smile. “What can I say? He’s a sweet boy.”

Jean knew that all too well. But that wasn’t what he was interested in. Marco was in the village. He had chosen to go without him. Jean hadn’t had the pleasure of frequenting the village the way Marco did; Pol always said it was best he stayed around the farmhouse, out of the way. People, she said with an awkward smile, had sons and brothers in the war. They wouldn’t take kindly to a conscientious objector of age and of fitness. Jean thought Marco, of all of them, wouldn’t have been ashamed to be seen with him. He sighed, reminding himself that he didn’t know the full story, and asked, “What’s he doing in town?”

“Running errands,” she replied breezily, sitting down opposite him. “He’ll be back by lunchtime, I’m sure. Only has to go to the post office, the grocer’s, and needs to pick up a tonic for one of the sheep. You know, the one with the colic.”

Jean nodded. He knew. The damned thing had tried to kick him in the head when he’d wrestled her out of the herd and into a separate pen. “Would you like me to do anything in the meantime?”

Pol made a humming noise under her breath, the same way Marco did when he was thinking. “You could always sweep the yard, repaint the barn doors, clean out the horse stalls…”

Needless to say, Jean was incredibly sorry he’d asked.

He was only halfway through the first task when he heard the familiar sound of hooves on gravel. He glanced up from his sweeping to see the black shape of the pony and trap heading up from the moorland road. The pony, Marco had told him, was a native of the land like them, and was on loan from a neighbouring farm some ten miles or so northwards. She was a nasty piece of work, with sharp little teeth and a kick that would break bone if hit in the right place. Jean wasn’t particularly fond of her, and the feeling was sincerely mutual. He was glad he hadn’t tried to touch her on that first day of his.

Sure enough, it was Marco driving, and as they trotted smartly into the yard Jean stopped pretending to sweep altogether. Marco didn’t look happy. That was, of course, something of an understatement, but Jean couldn’t pinpoint what exactly made him seem so… lacking in happiness. He was smiling after all, and waved a greeting as he slowed the mare down. To those who didn’t know him, he would have appeared completely and utterly content. But Jean had worked with him, eaten at his table, laughed at his jokes and met his aunt. He knew what happiness looked like on Marco well enough – and this wasn’t it.

Marco stepped down from the trap with a quick hop and ran around to take the pony by the reins, the smile wiping off his face as easily as if the wind had blown it off. Jean watched him as he took the steps to unharnessing the pony; detach the breeching leathers from the trap, loosen up the saddle, tie the ends together to keep them from dragging along the floor. It was a methodical, careful thing, and something Marco could do with his eyes shut. Jean watched his hands fumble more than a few times before he finished it. A frown began to creep onto his face. This was not like Marco. “How was town?” he called out.

Marco jumped. “S-sorry,” he replied, “I wasn’t… I was simply…” He sighed. “Town was fine.”

Jean blinked. “Fine,” he parroted back, as Marco continued to fumble with the straps around the pony’s middle. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but you only tend to call something ‘fine’ when it’s not, in fact, ‘fine’.” He knew he was pushing things; he could tell by the way Marco stopped what he was doing, breathed, and then continued. But still, he pushed. “Come on. Something happened down there. What was it?” When Marco still didn’t answer, he asked, “Was it to do with me?”

“Oh yes,” Marco muttered, “because the world revolves around Jean Kirschtein.”

The bite took Jean by surprise. He recovered quickly though, keeping back that part of him that wanted to snap and snarl like a fighting dog in retaliation. “Okay, so it wasn’t to do with me. Was it Pooka?”

Marco flinched. “No. Not her.”

“Then what? There’s got to be something, you look down in the dumps.”

Marco sniffed. “You know, it’s really none of your business. You can’t expect to come here and get me opening up to you over the course of a week or so, just because of what happened in London.”

That, more than the snap before, burrowed into Jean’s chest like a bullet wound. Marco had said it with barely simmering anger, with annoyance, and Jean knew better than to stoke that particular fire any more than he had to. “You’re right,” he said, though his chest felt leaden with the weight of the blow, “I was… out of turn. I’m sorry.”

Marco’s gaze softened, and he turned away from the pony to shyly reach out a hand to him. “No, I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean all that.”

Jean let his hand get taken, let Marco’s slightly roughened fingers whisper against his own as they threaded together, and bit back the sudden emotion that threatened to burst him at the seams. “Quite alright,” he said, stiffly. “I _was_ out of turn. I shouldn’t pry into your private matters, not when I don’t know you. It was… wrong of me.”

Marco gave him a long, searching look. “Gosh, how do you do it?”

Jean frowned. “What?”

“Just… shut down like that.” Marco’s eyes flickered over him like a candle flame, small and delicate. “Like it’s your fault, like… like showing that you’re upset is something to be hidden away or stomped out.” His brows drew together, trying to understand. “Who hurt you?”

Jean gulped. There it came, the tears that wanted so badly to come out and that he’d done so well at keeping at bay for so long. They danced at the edge of his eyes, daring him to think, daring him to _feel._ He shook himself. He took a deep breath. “Comes with the territory, I’m afraid,” he said. “Liking the people I do, it brings pain with it. Can’t change a thing like that.”

Marco’s frown stayed on his face for the rest of the day. They worked on the chores Pol had set Jean, and there were times when Marco was himself. He would smile in the right way, or give a playful comment. But there was that sadness about him all the same, something undefinable lurking at the edges of him and smothering any attempts at talking about it. Jean didn’t want to bring it up again, and so he didn’t; he just revelled in the moments where Marco was Marco again, and even grew brave enough to reach out and take his hand of his own accord, when he was sure no one was about. The feel of Marco’s hand, covering his own with such warmth and reassurance, cemented that gut feeling that he was not to get out of this encounter unscathed. He would be bringing scars with him, and big ones at that.

As the day went on, the weather took a turn for the worse. The sky above them turned the colour of iron, the clouds turning angry and sharper in looks. Pol went out after lunchtime to visit the neighbour with the pony and trap, and she had only been gone an hour or so before the wind began to pick up. Where it had whispered before, it now howled with a rage Jean had never before heard. “We should get the herd in,” Marco said, once it was clear the heavens were about to open. “I’ll head out with Shiloh. You stay here, make sure the chickens are inside and locked up and the horses have their feed. I won’t be long. Don’t worry about waiting for me, get inside if it starts to rain.”

A flash of fear bolted through Jean at the thought of being at the farmhouse, in the middle of Dartmoor, alone in a storm, but he somehow steeled himself together enough to nod. Marco whistled for Shiloh, the sheepdog came running, and the two of them set off to the top pasture, Shiloh’s head bent low to the wind.

Jean moved quickly. Atlas and Phoebe, side by side in their stalls, were restless. They tossed their heads and whinnied nervously at the impending storm. Jean went to each of them in turn, making sure their kickbolts were secured and patting them tentatively on the nose in an act of soothing presence – though, somehow, he didn’t think a man like him was the sort of person they would take advice from. The chickens proved far more tricky to catch – once he caught one, at least two more would come flapping around the corner – but he managed to coax them all inside one of the disused stalls with a promise of feed and warm bedding. They clucked at him disapprovingly as he shut the doors completely on them and bolted it down, but he figured it was the best he could do. The sheep would take the barn, he reckoned, and so he made sure the barn doors were wide open to welcome them inside.

It was at that moment when the heavens did indeed open. The clouds exploded in a downpour of rain that soaked Jean to the skin almost instantly and left him gasping with the shock of the cold. The wind howled, as though right on cue, and Jean took it to mean that his work was done. He abandoned the yard and fled to the shelter of the kitchen, where he kept the door open to keep an eye on Marco’s progress down the hill. It was easy to spot the large group of sheep jogging down the hill, their heels no doubt being nipped and snapped at by Shiloh. They would be back soon. Marco wouldn’t dawdle in such weather.

Jean glanced up at the raging cloud above the little house and the wind-whipped moor, and saw a tiny shape in the sky. It could have been a bird, if it weren’t so stiff. _A plane,_ he realised. From where he stood, it looked like nothing more than a paper creation, buffeted by the wind and dipping with the weight of cloud crushing around it. It was a supply plane, most likely, running reconnaissance perhaps, but as it dipped and vanished beneath the rolling, furious storm, Jean wondered if it would ever get there. His shivers began to reach his bones, and though he wanted nothing more than to prove to Marco he would wait for him, he abandoned his vigil in favour of warm clothes and the opportunity to stop thinking about the small shape so high up in the sky.

It turned out that Marco could indeed dawdle. Jean had changed out of his clothes and adopted new ones, set a fire in the living room and even picked up a book to pour over back in the dining room when Marco finally arrived, soaking wet and leaving small puddles in his wake. “Raining out there, is it?” Jean quipped, but Marco didn’t smile or taunt him back.

“Did you see the plane?” he asked.

Jean didn’t look up from his book as he replied, “I caught a glimpse, yes.”

“I wonder if it’s going to the front line.”

“Probably not. It wouldn’t want to get shot at by riflemen.” Jean turned a page. When he got no response, he put the book down on his chest. He frowned. Marco hadn’t moved from his spot in the kitchen doorway, water dripping from his hair and landing with steady drips on the floor. “Gosh, are you alright?”

Marco didn’t answer. That was never a good sign. Jean got up. Marco had a hand in front of his face, shielding it from view, though his hair was doing a good job of that already. His shoulders, to Jean’s horror, were shaking. Marco was _crying?_ “Hey, come on,” Jean hushed, kicking the door shut behind them. “You need to get out of those clothes of yours, or you’ll catch your death.”

Marco shuddered, and a small noise wheedled out of him. It wasn’t a sob, but it was the shadow of one. Jean felt the question tickling the corner of his mouth, but decided against it for the moment. Marco hadn’t wanted him to ask before – what would have changed now? He helped him take off his coat, hanging it up in the best spot to handle a tiny flood, and led him through to the living room.

Jean hadn’t been in the living room very often; it was a space Pol kept pristine for visitors, or the evenings when they were all together and wanting company. She probably wouldn’t appreciate Marco traipsing through her halls in wet clothes, but Jean couldn’t find it in himself to care at that particular point in time. Besides, he’d stoked the fireplace in the living room. The dining room fire would take too long, and Marco needed to get warm. “I’ll… go get you some clothes, just… stand by the fire,” Jean instructed, and Marco nodded with a small sniffle.

Jean took the stairs to Marco’s room two at a time, eager to be out of there. He had never been good with comforting anyone when they were crying, especially when he didn’t understand what Marco was crying about. He hadn’t seen a man cry in a long, long time. He was certain his father was incapable, his tear ducts having dried up long ago. It felt… odd, somehow. Like it shouldn’t be allowed for someone as strong, as withstanding, as _stable_ as Marco to crumble and break like that. It was wrong to think like that, Jean knew it, but the fact still worried him.

He paused before stepping into Marco’s room – he’d never done it before, and it felt like a sacred place he should not have been entering so nonchalantly – and when he turned the handle and opened the door, he was glad he had. A uniform, dull brown, hung on full view on Marco’s wardrobe. It was Marco’s size, down to every last detail, and it was eerie to look at. Did Marco look at this a lot, and wonder what it might have been like to don the mighty colour of mud and dirt for his country? Did he feel like a failure, for being told not to go? It was like there was a ghost standing before him, daring him to mock or scorn. Jean shook himself and grabbed the clothes he could find, making sure not to pry any more than he had to into Marco’s private affairs.

When he got back to the living room, Marco had slumped onto Pol’s cherished, if not moth-eaten, sofa. He still looked awful; his eyes were reddened around the edges and his face was flushed, but Jean took care not to linger on those things. “Here,” he said, placing the bundle on Marco’s lap, “don’t say I never do anything for you.”

Marco picked idly at a loose thread of cotton on the shirt Jean had chosen. “Thank you,” he said, and Jean knew he meant it.

“I’ll make some tea. You get changed.” Though it pained him to do so, he retreated to the kitchen to watch the stove, making sure to get the right amount of tea leaves into the pot for straining. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining things or if he truly did hear the muffled thump of clothes hitting the floor. He made a very conscious effort not to think about it too much.

He finished up the tea and drifted back into the living room, and by then Marco was changed and looking a little better in himself. He took the cup from Jean with a watery smile and took to staring into its muddied depths, like he was trying to scry out a message there. Jean sat down beside him, ensuring there was enough space between them in case Marco wasn’t in the mood for close contact, and took a sip of his own tea. It tasted foul, but he didn’t mind.

They sat in silence for a while, drinking the disgusting tea Jean had made and looking about the room. There were photographs of Pol’s son in here, the boy who’s room Jean currently lived in; there were pictures of a child, a teenager, and the most recent being one of him in uniform. There was a very obvious gap where Marco’s picture was supposed to be. Jean took another sip just to take the edge off how awkward it now seemed.

Marco was the one who spoke first. “I’m so embarrassed.”

Jean frowned. “Don’t be.”

“I should be. I’m not… I shouldn’t be crying like this, like I’m some… some actress on stage.”

“You’re allowed to cry,” Jean said, setting his cup on the table nearest them. Without a coaster. Pol would skin him. Though he’d been so uncomfortable about it before, he knew it was the right thing to say. “God, I have to stop myself from crying all the time. It’s normal.”

Marco shuddered out a breath and hid his face in his hands. “It’s just… I hate going to the village right now, Jean.” A droplet fell from his chin and dripped onto his knee, staining the fabric with emotion. “I hate it.”

Jean bit his lip and shuffled closer. Marco didn’t flinch away when their sides brushed together, nor did he look affronted when Jean grasped his shoulder and rubbed it gently. Jean didn’t know what to do. Baby steps, he reminded himself. Baby steps. “What happened?” he asked.

Marco sucked in a breath, held it, then expelled with a heavy gust that rivalled the howling wind outside. He didn’t speak for a touch too long for it to be a pause, and Jean wondered if he was weighing up his options. It was true, what he’d said in the yard; Jean didn’t know him well. It wasn’t really his business. But, for some stupid reason, Jean wanted to make it his business.

It was that, he hoped, that caused Marco to move his hands away from his face and explain. “Whenever I go into the village, I get stared at.”

“Why?” Jean already knew the answer. He didn’t really have to ask.

“Because I am the only young man who hasn’t enlisted, that’s why.” Marco swiped at his eyes viciously, like slapping the tears away would somehow help. “I walk into the market, or the square, or the bank, everyone just stops what they’re doing and looks at me. It’s a small village, you know? Word spreads like wildfire, so I never told anyone about why they refused to let me enlist. So they see me, and they see…” his voice trailed off. Jean knew what was coming.

“A coward,” he finished for him. “They see a coward.”

Marco sighed. “Yes.”

“A coward like me.” Something leaden dropped into his stomach at the very words. He knew what Marco meant. Being stared at on the street. Having abuse hurled at him whenever he stepped into a shop to buy groceries. Those awkward silences, like the one on the train.

“You’re not a coward.”

Jean offered him a weak smile. “So you’ve said.”

Marco returned the smile, if not a little bashfully. “A-anyway, I just… it got to me. I don’t know how you stand it, Jean, people treating you like a bad smell or a criminal that walked free. These people have sons out there in France, some have brothers and nephews and some even have fathers. And they see me, someone who looks perfectly normal, walking about like I don’t notice their pain- or worse, I don’t care. I must look so mocking to them.” He closed his eyes and leant forward, running a hand through his slowly drying hair.

Jean wetted his lips. He didn’t know what to say. Marco was right, he had experienced all of that; the scornful looks and snide comments whenever he was in public. The feathers were the worst, slipped into his pockets or forced into his hands by toffee-nosed young girls who didn’t have a clue what they were protesting. But there was a very big difference between him and Marco. Marco _couldn’t_ go to war – Jean simply didn’t want to. He patted Marco’s knee, sighing heavily under the weight of his thoughts. “People can be cruel,” he said. “But they’re cruel because they’re scared. They don’t mean anything by it, honest they don’t.”

Marco snorted bitterly. “You don’t know them. I’ve known them since I was a child, and they’ve always seen me as…” His voice trailed off, and Jean figured he didn’t want to know what Marco was going to say. Instead, Marco did something even more surprising. He leant over and rested his head on Jean’s shoulder, another heavy sigh heaving from him. Jean didn’t move – he couldn’t, he didn’t want to startle Marco away – but Marco didn’t seem to notice Jean’s inner turmoil.

A mist had come over his eyes as he thought back to the morning. “I saw a woman break down and scream in the middle of the street. Everyone just walked past her and tried not to maintain any sort of eye contact. Like her grief was a kind of disease they could catch.” He sniffled. “She had a telegram in her hand. It had a military seal, and was postmarked from France. Her son was the same age as me, was in my class at school when I was growing up here. God, he used to pick on me.”

He let out a soft chuckle that raised the hairs on the back of Jean’s neck. “I know it sounds mad, but suddenly… suddenly none of that mattered. That I didn’t like him, that he made fun of my freckles and we tried to best each other at everything. It just didn’t, because he was dead and his mother was sobbing her heart out in the middle of a crowded street, and no one was stopping to help her up.”

He buried his face in Jean’s shoulder then, a small sob hiccoughing from his throat that surprised the both of them. “This war… it won’t just blow over, will it? It wasn’t over by Christmas, it won’t be over by the end of the month. We’re in this for the long haul. God, Jean, that scares the hell out of me.” The tears were brimming again, and Marco tried his best to hold them back. Jean could see him struggling with it. “S-so maybe I am a coward.”

Jean bit his lip. “C’mere.” Marco nuzzled closer, allowing Jean to wrap an arm around him and draw him in to the slightness of his body. Marco’s breath puffed out in small clouds against Jean’s neck, enough to warm him and cause him a chill at the same time. Jean was never the one who did the comforting; he was the one who stood in a corner or at a doorway, with his arms folded and an acceptably upset expression on his face. But Marco was sniffling quietly into the crook of his neck now, and Jean couldn’t just let it linger. He leant down and, with a rising excitement and fear in his stomach, pressed his lips against Marco’s forehead. Marco didn’t stir. “War makes cowards of anyone.”

Marco sobbed out a laugh and nuzzled into his neck. “I thought you were meant to tell me I am brave and definitely not a coward.”

“No. Couldn’t possibly. See, if you were brave that could also mean you were stupid. A brave man might’ve gone ahead and joined the army anyway, lied about that medical record of his and tried to get as close to the front as he could before he got sent home.” He kissed Marco’s forehead again, taking the time to linger a little longer than before. “I’m glad you didn’t. I have a feeling it may just have broken my heart.”

He'd meant to say it in a light-hearted, joshing sort of way, but it came out dipped in far more sincerity than he’d wanted. Marco said nothing, just continued to sniffle, and Jean reached down and kissed his cheek this time, heat pooling in his belly as he sensed Marco turn to look at him. He trailed those kisses down, growing bolder with every kiss, until he took Marco’s face in his hands and turned it to face him. He leant in, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, tantalisingly close to where he’d wanted to kiss him all along. Marco’s eyes seemed heavy, with tiredness or something far less innocent Jean wasn’t sure, but when he didn’t pull completely away he saw something in those dark eyes spark. Marco’s eyes wandered down to his lips, and he gulped. “Jean-”

“Tell me to stop.” God, when has his voice gotten so raspy? “Please, God, Marco, tell me to stop. I won’t ever bother you again. I’ll keep to myself, I’ll work the way you want me to, I’ll leave when I’m asked.”

He made to pull away, but Marco grabbed a fistful of his jumper to keep him there. “No.”

And then, Marco kissed him.

It was a soft, shy creature, one tinged with cracked lips and salt from Marco’s tears, but Jean took hold of it like the reins to a galloping horse. He made the kiss more real, pushed closer, moved his lips more insistently against Marco’s. Because, _God,_ it had been a long time. He wasn’t the sort who went out looking for a fling every night of the week, but intimacy was a thing that kindled the already sinking fire in him. Marco made a surprised noise at the eagerness in which Jean kissed him back, but he recovered quickly. His hands moved to Jean’s face, cupping it between his work-worn palms and stroking gentle trails down his skin with his thumb. They kissed slowly, deeply, passionately, and Jean slowly but surely rolled onto Marco’s lap, careful to note any signs of discomfort should it be too far, too fast.

Instead Marco welcomed him with a breathless sigh and a hand slipping down from his face to the small of his back, gently pushing them closer. Jean hummed appreciatively and shed his jumper off over his head, only to throw it in a heap on the floor. He refused to break the kiss for more than a few seconds, because what if things changed? What if, when they stopped, they had time to think? As the oxygen rushed back to their brains, would they realise what they were doing and how dangerous it was?

But when he pulled away, Marco’s dazed smile met him instead. It wasn’t watery or weak now; it was warm and slightly disbelieving, and Jean arched his back as he felt a hand slide under his shirt to skim across bare skin. Dear God, it felt good to have Marco’s hands on him. But there was a quiet, and Marco was looking at him like he was the Belladonna. The silence, blissful though it was, had to be broken. “That was… a pretty impressive sounding ‘no’,” he said, laughing when Marco, like a _child,_ stuck his tongue out.

“Come on, don’t make fun,” he chided, sinking further back into the sofa and letting Jean straddle him properly. “I should have told you the first night you came here,” he said, brushing his hand down further and tucking it under the waistband of Jean’s trousers. “You were easily the best thing about London. And… and I’ve wanted to kiss you again for a long time. And…and if you wanted, I’d never want you to stop.”

He was pressing his thumb into the curve of Jean’s hip, something that Jean appreciated very much. Heat coursed through him, enough to make him bite around the moan that wanted to escape, and he instead pushed closer, grinding just enough to make Marco’s eyes flutter closed like the wings of a butterfly. “Flatterer,” he said, offering a shy grin Marco’s way. “You clearly haven’t been introduced to the various wonders of our great capital.”

Marco laughed again, helplessly and with a shake of his head, and buried his head in Jean’s stomach out of sheer bashfulness. Jean, like any rational person, started to play with the hair at the back of Marco’s neck, threading his fingers through it and twirling it around his fingers. “Maybe you could show me, next time,” he said, muffled through the fabric of Jean’s shirt.

“Next time?”

“Mmm.” Marco moved up and reached up to kiss Jean again, soft and slow, with his arms wrapped around him. Jean let out a soft gasp into the kiss as they rolled their hips together, already hard and Marco halfway there, and when Marco let one hand trail down between them to fumble at the buttons of his trousers he broke their connection to let out a soft, panting moan against the skin of Marco’s neck. “Now, though, you appear to be…otherwise engaged,” Marco teased, trapping his tongue between his teeth as he grinned up at him.

Jean pressed against those exploring fingers and shuddered. “Sp-speak for y-yourself,” he stammered.

Marco chuckled. “However, no matter how much I’d like to… to do numerous things to you right now, I don’t think Aunt Pol would appreciate it being on her sofa.”

Jean didn’t particularly care about anything anymore. But he allowed Marco to push him off, take his hand and lead him out of the room. His heart skipped like a lovestruck teenager’s when they took the stairs together, hands tightly clasped together and the memories of the dance hall feeding back into reality once again.

They made up for London.

They made up for it four times, to be precise.

When Pol eventually came back to the farmhouse two days later, after opting to stay with the neighbour due to the storms, she returned to a house with two boys in it. Two boys who seemed happier than she had ever seen them. Boys without the shadow of war in their eyes. When they woke up in the morning to herd the sheep, Pol took to house cleaning. When she arrived at Marco’s room, however, she saw something that made her stop. In the corner of his room, pulled from the hanger and folded neatly on a chair, was his uniform.

And atop it was a single white feather.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like it to be known that I spent about 60% of my time watching ploughing videos as research so that's some time I ain't getting back (and yes, horse drawn ploughing you filthy animals)


End file.
